


Let Me Out

by kj_graham



Series: Fracture the Times [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically I wanted to explore what happened after the ep ended, Drunk Sam Winchester, Episode: s09e10 Road Trip, Gen, Heavy Angst, castiel can read emotions through souls, episode coda, like really heavy, this isn't a happy fic'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kj_graham/pseuds/kj_graham
Summary: Sam is angry. Frustrated. His soul burns with it; Sam’s soul is normally fairly steady, doesn’t waver too much, but now it’s roiling, rough tidal waves of emotion making it almost dizzying for Castiel to look at.They don’t speak as Dean pulls away in the Impala. Sam is staring at the ground, face furrowed. His jaw is moving; Cas has noticed that whenever Sam is particularly upset, he has a habit of grinding his teeth a little.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester
Series: Fracture the Times [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824697
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	Let Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Damien Rice's "Rootless Tree" on repeat the entire time I wrote this fic. It's a very good song and also resonated with me for Sam here. It also provided me with a title.
> 
> This one is not at all fluffy, but I hope you enjoy anyway <3

Cas doesn’t know what to say to Sam. All he knows is Sam is in pain; lingering pain from the trials, probably some pain from Gadreel, and now pain because of Dean. Because of Kevin.

Sam is angry. Frustrated. His soul burns with it; Sam’s soul is normally fairly steady, doesn’t waver too much, but now it’s roiling, rough tidal waves of emotion making it almost dizzying for Castiel to look at.

They don’t speak as Dean pulls away in the Impala. Sam is staring at the ground, face furrowed. His jaw is moving; Cas has noticed that whenever Sam is particularly upset, he has a habit of grinding his teeth a little.

Sam speaks a minute or so after the Impala fades from sight. “Let’s go.”

Cas doesn’t ask where. They get into Cas’s car, Sam’s knees bent to an obnoxious degree in the passenger seat, and Cas just drives for a moment. He’s assuming they’re going back to the bunker.

“Sam,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry.”

Sam shrugs, not looking away from where he’s staring out of the window. His soul quivers with guilt. “You’re not the one who owes me an apology.”

“If I had known sooner,” Cas says. It’s very hard not to turn to look Sam in the eyes. “I would have helped you as much as I could. I would have tried to fix it sooner.”

Sam sighs, long, breathy. A spike of despair cuts the turmoil of his soul; anger and more guilt washes up behind it. Sam’s radiant soul is so dark, today. It’s drowning in too much, and all Castiel wants to do is fix it. His hands twitch on the steering wheel.

“If he lied to me,” Sam says, voice low, dull, “then I’m guessing he lied to you too. It’s not your fault, Cas.”

Guilt is choking Sam’s soul around the neck, now, strangling it into submission. Sam can’t see or feel it, but Cas’s wings flare. The one closest to Sam wraps around his shoulders; it’s an attempt to shield. Useless. Cas can’t shield Sam from himself.

Castiel takes his eyes off the road then, turning to seek Sam’s eyes. Sam’s expression is weary, haggard. His eyes are half-lidded and dull.

“It’s not your fault either, Sam.”

It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The guilt just tightens its grasp; despair sneaks up to strengthen its hold, and underneath it all there’s simmering betrayal. Sam’s jaw tenses; the grinding of his teeth starts to be audible.

A heavy silence settles over the car. In every passing streetlight Cas catches sight of Sam’s face, sullen and pale, leaning against the window.

“I wanna get drunk,” Sam mumbles.

“What?”

A sharp spike of irritation. For just a moment it overtakes the guilt. “I wanna get drunk.”

“Sam…that might not be the best idea. You’re still in need of healing. Are you sure you’d like to delay that to get drunk?”

“My brother just lied to me. Again. He made a decision for me. Again. One of the people we care about is dead. Again. So yes, Cas, I’m sure I want to get drunk. I have apparently spent more than enough time fucking healing just trapped in my own mind.”

Cas doesn’t argue. It has been a long time since he’s seen Sam this angry. Dean, sure; the older Winchester’s soul is constantly agitated to some degree, annoyance simmering under everything, but Sam…Sam’s more serene. Anger doesn’t pop up often; the strength of it now puts an acrid taste into Castiel’s mouth.

He doesn’t argue, though. There’s a dingy neon sign ahead of them; Cas pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sam says, glaring at his hands.

Cas just gets out of the car as an answer. They don’t speak as they enter the bar—it’s tiny, and smells far too much like cigarettes for Cas’s liking—and slide onto stools at the counter.

Sam orders himself a drink. Cas orders himself one, too.

Sam doesn’t speak for a long, long time. He doesn’t look at Cas, either; just downs whiskey sour after whiskey sour. Cas matches him drink for drink for the first three, but he can’t afford to draw any suspicion to himself, so he stops there.

Sam keeps going until he’s practically swaying in his seat. His eyes are suspiciously bright now, even if they’re still half-lidded. His tumultuous, tortured soul has been fogged over; sticky, staticky intoxication has taken its place, making his soul quiver queasily and effectively cutting Castiel off from his emotional state.

He has no doubt everything’s still there, however. Simmering under the surface. Shoved back and bottled up to be dealt with another time.

“Sam,” Cas says then. “I think maybe you’ve had enough.”

Sam blinks at him a little owlishly. “No,” he says a little petulantly.

Cas sighs. “Sam…”

“It’s my decision,” Sam bites. He’s slurring, but the anger in his voice is crystal clear. “Don’t need you making it for me.”

Cas swallows. He has never liked the way that he can’t seem to help Sam the way he wants to. Or Dean, but Cas has always viewed Sam a little differently.

Sam orders another drink, and Cas doesn’t stop him.

* * *

They leave the bar after the bartender cuts Sam off. Cas practically has to drag Sam out to keep him from starting a fight.

Sam is radiating anger. It’s seeping through the drunk coating on his soul, quivering off of his skin, igniting in his eyes. His hands clench so tight his knuckles blanch.

Sam doesn’t say a word the whole way back to the bunker. He stares sullenly out of the window or straight ahead through the windshield, clenching and unclenching his hands. Cas notices he rubs the scar on his palm every so often.

Castiel doesn’t know how to handle a drunk Sam Winchester. He knows what to do for a drunk Dean Winchester; leave water and painkillers within reach. Hide the remaining alcohol. Stand vigil with him as the alcohol starts to burn away and Dean becomes more forlorn than angry. Do not mention any of the things that Dean said or did while intoxicated.

Cas has seen Sam drink, sure. But Sam never allows himself to get this far gone.

It scares Cas, a little. He doesn’t like being unsure. He doesn’t like that he can’t fix what’s bothering Sam. He doesn’t like how unhinged Sam seems at the moment.

Sam doesn’t say a word when they enter the bunker, either. He trudges down the stairs and disappears into the kitchen with unsteady steps, and it only takes Cas a fraction of a moment to follow.

Sam’s opening the designated liquor cabinet.

“Sam,” Cas says, voice firm. “You’ve had more than enough to drink already.”

Sam startles. He drops the bottle in his hands and it falls to shatter loudly at his feet. He stumbles backwards and only just manages to catch his balance.

Then he turns to Castiel. Spiky fear is already fading back into the drunk murk, but the anger is still there, roiling up from the depths of Sam’s soul like an ancient sea monster.

“Cas,” he slurs. “I’ve had a very long day. All I want is a fuckin’ drink.”

“You’ve already had a drink,” Cas returns, voice steady. “You’ve had many drinks. I cannot, in good conscience, let you have any more. You’ll drink yourself to death.”

“Good,” Sam spits.

Silence hangs very heavily for a long moment. Cas just stares at Sam. He’s terrified by the vehemence in Sam’s voice. The certainty.

Cas has always known that he, Sam, and Dean, are too much alike in this way. Unwilling to let each other die but far too eager to take the plunge themselves.

It doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking.

“Not good,” Cas says. “You dying is not a good thing, Samuel.”

Sam’s face scrunches at the use of his full name. He’s still glaring at Cas with all he’s worth, but despair is starting to flow through his soul like a heavy fog.

After a moment, Sam looks away. He sighs down at the mess of liquor and glass at his feet like it’s caused all his problems, and then he starts shuffling toward Cas. He pauses on the kitchen steps, gives Cas an expression that is possibly supposed to pass as a smile, and claps him hard on the shoulder before he’s making his way down the hall toward his bedroom.

Cas swallows. The anger and the despair in Sam are warring for top spot; combined, they make Cas’s mouth taste like vomit.

He collects a glass of water and some Ibuprofen from the kitchen before he goes, and then he takes the same path to Sam’s bedroom.

Sam’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring hard at something in his hands, and he barely even looks up when Cas enters.

Cas doesn’t say a word as he sets the water and meds down on the nightstand.

“I shouldn’t be so mad at him, Cas,” Sam says quietly.

Cas glances at Sam’s hands. He’s clutching a worn photograph of him and Dean; Sam can’t be more than six, Dean more than ten.

There’s a wet droplet in one of the corners of the photograph. Cas becomes aware of a tidal wave of frustration and despair in Sam just before he sees a second tear fall, splashing on Dean’s neck.

“Your anger is understandable,” Cas says. He’s careful to keep his tone neutral; Sam’s soul is still entrenched in sickly sweet alcohol, and Cas knows that drinking tends to make people—especially Winchesters—a little volatile.

“I was ready,” Sam says, even quieter.

Cas doesn’t need to ask what Sam’s talking about.

“I was ready,” Sam repeats. “I wanted to be done. He shouldn’t have—he lied to me. He didn’t—it’s like what I wanted didn’t matter.”

Cas sits on the edge of Sam’s bed. Next to him, but not so close that they’re touching. “Sam,” he says carefully. “All that matters to Dean _is_ you. You mean too much to him. He cannot lose you.”

Sam laughs. It’s an ugly, hollow sound. The derision tastes bitter on Cas’s tongue.

“I mean so much to him, and yet he keeps making decisions for me. Keeps lying to me.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond, but Sam shakes his head rather miserably. Despair is washing over him in steady waves; it has won out over the anger. Cas gets stuck staring at how Sam’s eyelashes clump together with tears.

“Please,” Sam mutters. “Please don’t defend him. Not right now. Not to me.”

“I wasn’t going to defend him,” Cas says. “He did make mistakes. He did hurt you. But he didn’t _mean_ to hurt you.”

Sam shuts his eyes, then. Shakes his head. “I’ve had too many people violate me, Cas. I…there was an angel in me and I had no _idea_. And then he shoved me into the back of my own head and, and used my body, _my_ hands, to kill someone I loved, and I just…Cas, how am I supposed to even process all of that?”

“It will take time,” Cas says. His hands itch to touch Sam; to heal away all of this. “But…I will be here for you through it.”

Sam finally looks up then. Turns to look Cas in the eyes. Swallows. There are more tears flowing down his whiskey-reddened cheeks.

“Cas,” Sam says, voice low. Voice wrecked. Another wave of despair buffets his soul. “I want you to know…the only angel I would ever let in is you.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Sam won’t be able to sense it, but Cas spreads his wings, wraps them tight around the younger Winchester.

“I’m honored, Sam Winchester,” Cas whispers. “But I would never do that to you.”

“You’re the only one I’d trust to,” Sam says. “You don’t…you don’t lie. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Cas rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I will never hurt you.”

* * *

Castiel doesn’t leave Sam’s side the rest of the night. He’s there when the drunken haze starts to slink away from Sam’s soul like a chastened animal and Sam convulses and shakes over the toilet bowl.

He’s there when Sam is washed in despair that’s sharpened by sobriety, and he’s there to hear everything and anything Sam wants to say.

Castiel cannot fix it. He cannot make any of this better with a touch. He can’t wipe away Dean’s wrongdoing. He can’t erase Gadreel’s violation, or Lucifer’s, or any before them. He can’t heal the remaining damage from the trials.

But he can stay here, where he’s needed, one wing hovering protectively around Sam, and try to ride the storm out with him.

It’s a very long, very dark storm. But Castiel knows it will all be worth it to see the sunlight beam into Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes.


End file.
